


Simply Love

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Love Letters, of the questionable kind, valentines day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:29:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Feast of St. Valentine was not Enjolras’s favourite holiday, for good reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simply Love

When Combeferre pushed open the door to his rooms, he was met with an unexpected resistance. The block of wood should have been relenting, the land lady having oiled its hinges only a week prior, but now an unknown force was causing it to push back. Combeferre peered downward to survey the possible reason, and his brows shot up at a thick envelope acting as a doorstop. He bent to pick it up, carefully adjusting his bag and balancing his own mound of papers in a single hand. The awkwardness of his position proved too much, and his carefully laid stack poured itself to the floor.

“Problems?” Enjolras hollered from inside, for he had recognized Combeferre’s tread as he trudged up the stairs. “It’s nothing,” Combeferre replied as he hastily attempted to regain some semblance of order in his life.

When Combeferre finally entered his own quarters, Enjolras had found it in himself to look presentable. He presently occupied the writing desk, back relaxed against the chair and his fingers writing at a leisurely pace. The top buttons of his shirt were still askance, and it became glaringly obvious that he had yet to see the glory of the sun that day.

“Did you stay in?” Combeferre asked. He had risen early to finish his shift at Necker, and seeing Enjolras still peacefully asleep, hadn’t bothered to wake him for breakfast. His shift passed quickly, and for a day at a hospital, was surprisingly pleasant. Combeferre deposited his items on their only arm chair.

“I did, indeed,” Enjolras replied without looking up. “And you need not inflict that frown on me. I informed my professor that I would not be present. He has given me work in advance.” Enjolras faced him, and Combeferre did indeed have a frown on his face. Their efforts were crucial to the cause, but Combeferre still felt a pinch in his heart when it interfered with their studies. It was a cruel necessity, but cruel all the same. Combeferre sat at the edge of the arm chair and produced the envelope that had previously obstructed his entrance.

“I found this at the bottom of the door. It doesn’t seem to be mine, and our correspondence should have been left at the porter. Would you know anything of it?” Enjolras’s lips pressed together, as they often did when he was perturbed. He stared disapprovingly at the tainted whiteness of the envelope, and at his silence, Combeferre became curious. He opened the dreaded thing, pulled out the fancy sheets of paper, and began to read.

“Monsieur, my body trembles at the thought of you…”

Combeferre blinked. Had he read that correctly? A finger nudged his spectacles upward as he scanned the opening lines more carefully. He was at the third sentence when he involuntarily swallowed, at the fourth when sweat trickled at the back of his neck, at the seventh when he lost track of the letter’s contents and merely stared into the distance. After a few moments, he managed to clear his throat and look up to other occupant of the room. Their eyes met, but before Combeferre could pronounce anything, Enjolras answered his question.

“They have been coming all day,” he admitted with resigned breath. “I had hoped that the lack of my presence in the streets would diminish the amount this year, but it has proven ineffective.” As he said this, Enjolras’s gaze drifted to the waste basket beside the writing desk. Combeferre followed them, and he stared dumbfounded at the Babel-like mound of unopened envelopes.

It was the first time since they moved in together that he and Enjolras had come upon the feast of St. Valentine, but Combeferre had not expected that his dearest friend would receive this amount of attention. He attempted a remark: “that is —” Fortunate? Inconvenient? He was not sure how to place himself, but Enjolras had relieved him of the effort by producing a desperate groan.

“I do not know who or where or why,” he began to explain, “only that wherever I go, be it at my home in Marseilles or here in Paris, I have no lack of unknown admirers.” He spat the last word with venom and crossed his arms. He nodded to Combeferre’s own pile of papers.

“You seem well-loved.” he said. His voice betrayed his sincerity, and Combeferre could not help but grant him a smile. “From my patients,” he said. “A group of them managed to gather scraps of paper and ribbon, from where, I do not know, and they spent a day out of their cots drawing and writing poems.” A gentle warmth emitted from Combeferre as he spoke, and Enjolras regarded him with a light in his eyes.

Their moment of peace was disturbed by a rough knocking at the door, and the familiar rasp of their porter echoed from outside. “Pardon, Monsieur Enjolras. There’s a letter here for you.”

Enjolras sighed, his second one for the hour, and chose to go back to his work. Combeferre gave him a consoling pat on his way to the door. He greeted the porter well enough, felt his pockets for tip, and closed the door with a genial farewell. When he resurfaced from the living room, he held a thickset card with lace patterns and hand-colored drawings. The illustration was of a man looking up in awe at a white-clad woman with long hair and a dubious yellow glow. Judging from his dress, the man was from the Guard, and there was a lack of subtlety in the way he held the pommel of his sword, forcing it to lean forward and producing an interesting silhouette with his hips. At the bottom of the card, it read:

“Let me enter, love  
To thy precious garden  
And kiss your lips, so soft  
As I cry and harden”.

Combeferre pinched the bridge of his nose and opted to spare Enjolras from further suffering. Instead, he opened the card to read the more important message. A card so casual and lewd could only come from one person. “To my dearest friends,” it read in a fine scrawl. “Should you find yourselves un-engaged tonight, you are most welcome to dine with me at the Place Royale. By tragic circumstances, I have found myself without a companion and would prefer to celebrate this day with fellows as miserable as myself. Yours, Courfeyrac. P. S. I hope the card is to your liking.”

Combeferre spent some time silently imploring to the ceiling before turning to Enjolras who was gazing at him expectantly. “Pray throw it here with the rest,” Enjolras said. Combeferre allowed himself a grin. “It is not what you think. Courfeyrac invites us to dinner. He thought it amusing to send a card in honor of the occasion.”

“I fail to understand why it is even an occasion,” Enjolras rebuked, but before Combeferre could appeal to him further, he continued: “Why must there be an occasion to show our affections when the matter of it is is that we must express them whenever we can? As long as we can. It may not be the case now, but in the future, all quarrels will be ruled over by tenderness. Just as love will become a thoughtless part of every day, there will be no more need to commemorate it. Imagine, Combeferre! how radiant that would be.” The corners of Combeferre’s lips curved slightly. For all his icy demeanor, Enjolras was not one to lack love. He loved relentlessly. Fiercely. Already he had forgotten his own grievance and lost himself to their ideal world. Combeferre did not wonder if one day Enjolras’s love would lead him to his end.

Indeed, he would be there to share it.

With this confident thought, he moved to give Enjolras his coat and hat. “If it is any consolation to you, the feast of St. Valentine is not restricted to lovers alone.” He gave Enjolras’s neck cloth a final tug before leading him out the door. “It can just as well be celebrated by people who simply love.”

Enjolras nodded at that, and together they made their way to a loved one.


End file.
